Father Son Bonding Redoux
by Sunset
Summary: Due to some new information about Bobby’s father from the last few episodes, I’ve rewritten a little, and added a couple of new chapters.
1. Age 5

Age 5  
  
Norman Rockwell would have been proud. Mother, Father, their son, all sitting around a breakfast table full of eggs, sausage, toast, milk, butter, coffee. The kitchen was filled with the light of the morning streaming in through the window.+  
  
The father read his morning paper as he ate, had it folded up neatly and placed on the table next to his plate. He listened to his wife and son and their morning chatter.  
  
"How's the cow go?" The mother asked and patted at non-existent stray hair back into its proper place, taking a sip of coffee with her other hand.  
  
"MOOOOO!" came the excited answer from the five-year-old boy; bits of toast flew out of his mouth. "Bobbyhoney!" his mother playfully scolded as she used her napkin to dab at the crumbs. Little Bobby just giggled in that way that only five-year-old boys can do.  
  
Looking up from his paper, father said: "What are you plans for today, Sweetheart?" "Well" answered mother, standing and moving toward the sink with her and her son's plates. "I'm working this morning, then this afternoon the normal errands. Why? Do you need something?"  
  
"No, no, just asking. Will you be taking young master Bob with you to the library?" He winked at his son. Little Bobby, not yet having quite mastered the art of the wink, squeezed both eyes shut tight for a nanosecond then opened them again, repeating his laughter of earlier. Smiling, his father asked: "What are you going to read about today?"  
  
"Fish." Bobby said simply, as if he'd been making his plans all morning.  
  
George Goren piled his silverware, napkin and coffee cup onto his plate and carried them to his wife at the sink. Sideling up against her, he slipped his dishes into the water-filled sink with his left hand, at the same time placing his right hand on the small of his wife's back. He stood a good six inches taller than her, and that was when she was wearing heels. Burying his nose in the hair just behind her ear, he softly kissed her neck. "See you tonight," he whispered. Smiling, she turned her head, so they were face to face. He lightly kissed her lips, and moved back to the table to pick up his paper. Stopping at Bobby's chair on his way out the door, he placed his large hand on the top of his son's head. Bobby lifted his chin to look at his father, his head going so far backwards, his neck rested on his back.  
  
"'Bye Daddy."  
  
George leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Tussling his hair he said, "Have a good day, Son." Then, as if he'd been planning this for as long as Bobby had been planning on reading about fish, he said: "Want to play some ball when I get home this evening?" "Yeah!" Bobby hollered, raising one arm into the air in celebration. Then he moved his arm, throwing a non-existent soft ball into the kitchen wall.  
  
"Ok, then. It's a date," his father said walking into the hall that lead to the front door. As he slipped into his coat, he called back "Be good for your mother today."  
  
"I will." Bobby answered, just before the front door shut. 


	2. Age 12

Age 12  
  
The bright yet cold Thanksgiving afternoon light sneaked its way in through the cracks in the curtains. Bobby sat on the couch, in the place that had the most sunlight. A football game was on the TV, but Bobby was only mildly interested in it. He'd look up from his book now and then to watch a few moments, or an instant replay his father, sitting in the easy chair, excitedly hollered for him to watch. Before descending back into the world of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, Bobby would stare at the kitchen door for a moment listening to his mother as she moved about the kitchen preparing their holiday dinner. He listened, he always listened. He'd learned to determine her moods, how well she was feeling, by the sounds she made. It wasn't only in the words she used, or the tone her voice held or didn't hold. The pitch of her humming, the click of her shoes on the tile floor, her very breathing sometimes, could tell him if an episode was on the way. He paused now, listening, and decided everything was all right. When his eyes traveled from the kitchen door on the way back to his book, they swept over his father, sitting his easy chair. He had intended to meet his father's gaze, to share that moment they so often shared, for Bobby knew his dad listened too. The two of them listened together, like soldiers on a quiet battlefield; waiting for the slightest hint another struggle was coming. Bobby often dreamed he and his father were knights, battling an unseen foe, as they fought bravely to save the maiden in danger. When his eyes swept over his father, sitting there in the easy chair, Bobby's heart sunk. His father didn't meet his gaze, he hadn't been listening, he'd been watching the football game. Bobby's stomach churned and he took a deep breath, swallowing the tears that were caught in his throat. The battle was his, and his alone now. 


	3. Age 14

Age 14  
  
Bobby laid on his back on his bed, his hands behind his head; ever growing elbows pointing out to the sides. He stared up into the darkness. Shards of moonlight broke past the edges of his tightly closed curtains. He heard his mothers muffled sobs; he could tell her face was in her hands. Listening again.if only he'd been around to listen earlier maybe he'd have been able to prevent this one, maybe this whole thing would never have happened. He closed his eyes tightly, and knowing it was childish, he wished the whole thing would go away.  
  
Outside a car door slammed, then slow, heavy steps came up the walk, stopping on the front porch. Mumbling curses, George looked for his keys, then a quick shout of triumph when he found them. Metal slid and ticked against metal as the wrong key was tried, and tried again. With a loud curse to the keys, and one to the door, the right key was finally found and George let himself into his home. The king arriving at his castle.  
  
When the front door slammed, Bobby opened his eyes and looked at his bedside clock. 3AM. 'He's early' Bobby thought to himself just as he heard a heavy thump from the living room and his father shouting out, first in pain, then Bobby's name, calling for help.  
  
"BOB!" Came the holler from the living room. Through the thin walls, he could hear as his mothers sobs got louder, her breath coming heavier, in gulps. "ROBERT, Damn it!" the king bellowed again. With a deep sigh of resignation, Bobby tossed the sheets off of himself, swinging his legs to the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and let his head drop into his hands, letting out another sigh.  
  
"Boooobbbbyyyy." The call for help had gone from angry to whining.  
  
His mothers voice came through the wall, and Bobby's tightly wound muscles jumped at the sound. "Bobby, please, go help him." She was pressed up against her side of the wall, he could tell. She whispered, and yet he could hear her as if she was right behind him.  
  
He didn't answer her, he didn't have to. He would go, they both knew he would. He always did what his mother asked.  
  
The living room was dark expect for the small lamp on an end table. Bobby had purposely left it on for just this occasion. Reaching the intersection of the hall and living room, he quickly glanced around, trying to find his fathers huddled figure in the dim light. "Bob! Nice of you to come." Anger to whining to sarcasm, always the same.  
  
"Ok, Dad, come on." Bobby's face and voice were expressionless as he bent to pick his father up off the floor.  
  
George grabbed Bobby's shoulders and heaved himself up. Uneasily on his feet, still leaning against his son, George grabbed Bobby's upper arm and squeezed it a couple of times. Bobby held his breath as best he could, trying not to breath in the perfume his father was doused in.  
  
"My son. My son." Bobby struggled and George stumbled and together somehow they made it to the easy chair. "Got a girlfriend?" George asked as he dropped into the chair. Bobby ignored the question, kneeling down, unlacing then removing his fathers' shoes. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Son." George paused, staring at Bobby's profile, willing him to look up. He didn't, and George continued. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's don't get married. Ever. Oh, sure . . . it's all dandy at first, but then. . .that beautiful bride of yours turns into a . . .a. . . " Lunatic. Unspoken, it hung in the air between them, each knowing how to fill the empty space. Bobby looked up, meeting his father's eyes for the fist time that night. He waited. George's eyes became suddenly watery, and he tore his gaze away from his sons. "Wife." He finally finished. "She becomes a wife." 


	4. Age 16

Age 16  
The house was quiet, 2am quiet. He'd been asleep for an hour or two, but Bobby snapped awake at the knock on the door. He'd become an accomplished light sleeper these last few years. His surroundings were momentarily unfamiliar; he glanced around with the beginnings of panic until he remembered he had stayed the night with a friend. He glanced around again, trying to determine what it was that had woken him up, then he heard it again, knocking, only this time it was softer, and on the bedroom door. A sliver of light fell across the bedroom floor, and into Bobby's eyes. His friend's father stood in the doorway. "Bobby? You're dad's here, he needs to see you." His tone of voice was quiet, sympathetic. Bobby had heard the tone before, and knew it was about his mother.  
  
Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he pulled on his shoes, cursing himself under his breath for having left her. She'd insisted, promised him she'd be all right for the night. She'd been so much better lately, he'd been able to keep her on her medication and he'd taken her to all her doctor appointments, he had wanted so badly to believe it would be ok from now on. His father's arrival proved to him that wasn't going to be. He shrugged into his jacket and walked into the hall, unable to meet the eyes of his friends' father. The father he wished he had.  
  
"Dad?" Bobby said as he walked into the living room.  
  
"Bob." George Goren stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his jacket pockets, as if he didn't know what else to do with them, or to hide the shaking, Bobby could never be sure. He took them out now, as he approached Bobby, and placed them on his son's shoulders. Bobby fought against his instinct to shrug him off. "Bob." He licked his lips, trying to think of a way to say what he had to say. "She's in the hospital." He paused for a moment, and realized Bobby's panic was rising. "No, no, she's ok. Really, she's ok. But she wants you there."  
  
Bobby only nodded his understanding; he couldn't make his voice slip past the lump in his throat. Silently the two of them walked out the door to the car at the curb. Lipstick tainted cigarette butts littered the ashtray, and Bobby could smell that familiar blend of cheap musk, tequila, sweat, horse manure and an underlying scent of what Bobby would only later know was sex. He opened the window, taking a deep breath of fresh air.  
  
About a block down the road, Bobby broke the silence. "What'd she do?" His father's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and he glanced over at his son. It was a dark night, no moon, no stars, and Bobby's face was just a shadow against shadows.  
  
"The police told me."  
  
"The POLICE?"  
  
"Yes, sorry, the police. She was walking outside." he paused, considering how much his son needed to know, he took a deep breath when he realized he had to tell him everything. "She wasn't wearing any clothes, Bob." He glanced over again, but was still unable to see Bobby's face; he turned his attention back to the road as he continued. "She was ranting as she went down the sidewalk."  
  
"What was she saying?"  
  
"What does that matter?"  
  
"IT MATTERS, OK?"  
  
The elder Goren took a quick glance in the rearview mirror and slammed on the breaks, bringing the car to a complete stop right in the middle of the road. He threw the car into park and turned roughly toward his son. Off in the distance, a dog began to bark.  
  
"Don't you take that tone with me. I am your father." Bobby let out a noise that was half grunt, half laugh. George sighed deeply, letting the breath out loudly as he sank back into the car seat. He propped his left elbow on the window ledge and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Without realizing it, Bobby too rubbed his hands over his eyes then waited impatiently for his father to start driving again.  
  
"Bobby." George paused, trying to find the words. "You're to young to understand." Bobby interrupted, "Can we just go, please?"  
  
Another deep sigh came from the drivers seat. "Yeah. We'll go."  
  
The next two miles passed in silence. Bobby stared out his window looking at all the dark storefronts and apartment windows, wondering what other people's lives were like. He'd almost hypnotized himself when the sudden sound of his fathers voice made him jump.  
  
"Jimmy Carter." George said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That's what she was screaming about, Jimmy Carter. How her hairdresser is hatching a plot to kill President Carter."  
  
Bobby listened, his head turned away from the window, staring at his father with stunned eyes. Screaming. She'd been screaming. It echoed in his mind. Screaming. Screaming. He realized his father had been right, it didn't matter what she had been saying, all that mattered is that she had been screaming. And he hadn't been there for her. 


	5. Age 23

Age 23  
Bobby stood up the second the plane came to a halt. Opening the overhead bin, he grabbed his bag and headed for the front of the plane. Other passengers were already crowding the isle, with hasty apologies, Bobby squeezed past them. He hadn't changed out of his Army fatigues, and the uniform, plus the determined look in his eye squashed any arguments that might have been forthcoming from the other passengers. When he got past the first class cabin, the door was still shut, and Bobby had to restrain himself from pushing the fight attendant aside and opening it himself.  
  
All the way from Germany he'd flown with a single thought in his head. His mother needed him. Her doctor had sent him a telegram, it was time, the doctor said. She needed to be hospialitized, and Bobby was the only one who could talk to her, get through. If worse came to worse, Bobby, being her next of kin, would need to institutionalize her himself. The doctor hadn't offered any details, but he didn't need to. Bobby's knowledge and imagination filled in the blank spaces. His entire trip, he pictured his mother alone in a dark room, speaking to people who weren't there. Crying jags that would leave her depleted, lying in bed in the fetal position. In his mind, he heard her calling out for him over and over.  
  
The plane door finally opened and Bobby ducked through it quickly and ran down the gateway. When he burst through the gate and into the terminal, the shocked, scared stares of the people in the terminal reminded him how he was dressed, that he was still in uniform. Forcing himself in to a rushed walk/jog pace and headed for the airport exit.  
  
He heard his name several times before it registered that someone was calling him. He turned sharply to find the source of the voice, the bag on his shoulder swung out fiercely with the movement. His eyes searched the crowd, wondering who it was calling him. And then suddenly he made eye contact with the owner of the voice. "What the hell?" Bobby muttered to himself as he watched his father stride toward him.  
  
George Goren stopped a foot away from his son, already feeling the tension radiating between them. "Dr. Black called me this morning, told me when you'd be arriving." He explained. He took the last step toward Bobby, as if to hug him, but sensing his fathers' intentions, and not wanting to waste anymore time, Bobby turned and began walking to the exit again. A moment later, Goren Sr. fell in to step beside him.  
  
George glanced over at his son, not liking what he saw. His fatigues were rumpled and it looked as if he hadn't shaved in days. Bobby's face was gaunt, his eyes sunken with worry, exhaustion and fear. "Were you able to get any sleep on the plane?" Bobby answered with a noise that was half grunt, half snort. The elder Goren dropped the subject, and they continued their hike to the exit in silence.  
  
Traffic brought their cab to a stand still. Impatient, Bobby pounded his fist on the headrest of the seat in front of him, "Damn it." He shouted.  
  
The cab driver turned quickly in his seat, "Hey! Keep that up, and I'll throw your ass out right here."  
  
George knew his son was ready to blow, and he didn't want the driver to get in the way. He pushed himself up in the seat, so his face was between the driver and Bobby. "I'm sorry, sir. My son and I are going through a family emergency. Please, understand, he didn't mean any harm."  
  
"Well. . ." the driver paused, secretly relieved he didn't have fight a man as big as Bobby ". . . ok." He turned back in his seat, facing traffic again.  
  
"You shouldn't have done that." Bobby glared at his father.  
  
George didn't answer. Instead he calmly sat back, in the corner of the back seat, folded his arms, and waited.  
  
"You shouldn't've . . ." All of Bobby's worry, panic, guilt, exhaustion welled up inside of him, filling his chest so that his heart felt about to erupt. The backs of his eyes were like a dam holding back an ocean. Every muscle flexed to near breaking point. "You shouldn't've. . ." Bobby repeated and harshly rubbed his eyes with one hand. George stayed still, waiting. Bobby's mind could no longer fight his body. Everything gave all at once. His whole body, no longer able to withstand so much pressure, let go. The weight on his chest burst, sending a torrent of long held back tears. Bobby buried his face in his hands, his back hunched over his knees racked with sobs.  
  
In the corner of the back seat, George Goren sat silently watching his son, and thanked God for Bobby finally being able to let go. Uncrossing his arms, he reached over to his son, hooking his right arm around Bobby's neck, pulling him in so his head lay on his shoulder and circled his other arm around Bobby, holding him tightly against his chest and let Bobby cry. 


	6. Age 25

Age 25  
Bobby sat in the hard steel chair; the kind only hospitals have, padded with a worn plastic that squeaked with every movement. A ray of sunlight shone in from the window, lying across his crossed legs and the open book propped on his knee. Bobby turned the page, then brought his head up, focusing his attention on his mother lying in bed. She was still asleep, and he watched her eyes dart rapidly back and forth under her closed eyelids. Her face would contort, as if she was in pain, and then relax again for a moment only to have another dream world emotion display itself in her features. He listened to her breathing, steady and soft, belying the intense expressions on her face. He returned to his book, only to repeat the entire process when he turned the next page.  
  
After an hour of sitting and reading, then listening and watching, Bobby closed the book, setting it on the table next to him. Standing up, he reached for the ceiling, stretching out his cramped back and legs. Letting his arms fall back down to his side, he stood quietly consuming the environment around him, not only his mother, but also the hospital outside the door, the city outside the window. For a moment, he put himself in his mothers place, being limited to this one room, while at the same time being able to look out on the city she could no longer participate with. Not a whole part of this world, and yet not able to let herself submerge into her own. She didn't fully belong anywhere. He felt the loneliness that she must live with, and finally understood the excitement and pleasure her voice carried when he telephoned. With a sudden realization, he knew she was stronger than anyone, himself included, had ever given her credit for. The idea made his stomach felt cold and empty, while his heart filled with more love and admiration than he had ever felt.  
  
Quietly he walked to the edge of her bed and stood over her for a moment. Glancing over to the table next to the bed, what in a normal bedroom would be considered a nightstand, he took inventory of the things precious enough to her to display in the limited space. A small frame held his baby picture, a large one held a photo of him in his Army dress uniform. He had posed for that especially for her. Three dried red roses lay on the tabletop in between the two photos. Bobby picked up the last item on the table, a bottle of White Shoulders. He lifted it to his nose, and closing his eyes breathed in the scent so dominant of his childhood. As the sweet smell filled him, he could feel his mothers' lips on his forehead, his fathers' hand on the top of his head.  
  
"That was the only perfume she'd ever wear." A familiar voice broke through Bobby's memory, the warmth and safety he had been flooded with dissipated into the sterile hospital room air. Bobby had been to absorbed in his memories to hear the door open and his father step into the room.  
  
"I know." Bobby regretfully opened his eyes and placed the bottle gently back down on the table, making sure he put it exactly as he'd found it. He leaned down over his mother, and lightly kissed her forehead, the same way he just remembered her kissing his. He turned to his father. "What're you doing here?"  
  
George Goren stood just inside the closed door and smiled sadly at his son's question. In the past few years, he had given up trying to make amends with Bobby. He knew his role would forever be that of the man who abandoned his sick wife for cheap women and fast horses. The man who had forced his child, his son, to grow up much to soon. He tossed his overcoat onto the chair Bobby had just risen from and walked over to the side of the bed. He took her hand in both of his and squeezed it lightly, letting her know he was there. Finally he looked over to Bobby and answered the question. "It's her birthday. That's why I'm here." He waited for the inevitable argument, the protest and accusations, but they didn't come. Bobby only studied his father a moment before looking back down at his mother. Surprised, George asked the question that had been on his mind since he first saw that she was sleeping. "How bad was it?"  
  
Bobby knew what he meant, she wouldn't be sleeping in the middle of the day unless she'd had an episode bad enough for the staff to inject something to make her sleep. "Bad enough." Bobby answered, not wanting to go through the story he'd been told when he first arrived that morning.  
  
In response, his father only nodded in understanding, and for the next few minutes, the two men stood there, both looking down at the woman they each loved.  
  
George broke the silence; he let go of his wife's hand and sat down in the chair next to the bed, a duplicate of the one in the corner where Bobby had spent the morning. "So. . . you got out of the Army?"  
  
A pause, Bobby threw his father an irritated glance. "Yeah."  
  
When Bobby didn't elaborate, George tried again. "What are you going to do now?"  
  
"NYPD."  
  
"A cop?" George was at once proud and frightened.  
  
"Yeah. A cop."  
  
"Bob. . . you could do anything . . . why that?"  
  
Bobby had asked himself that same question many times. He didn't have an answer for himself, let alone for his father. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. But it feels right."  
  
George thought about that, logically, he'd known his son was an adult, 25, and that Bobby had been handling adult situations for most of his life, but he was suddenly struck by the fact that his son was now a man. He nodded in understanding at Bobby's answer. Changing the subject, he asked: "Got a girl?" Bobby snorted out a short laugh and shook his head. His eyes never leaving his mothers face.  
  
George shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You want a family, don't you?"  
  
Bobby lifted his head, meeting his father's eyes. "Yes. But I'll tell you one thing. . ." his voice was soft, all the fight in him was gone. "I'd never do to them what you did to us."  
  
Sudden tears stung George's eyes, but he knew he had no right to them, and chased them away with a deep breath. Looking directly at Bobby he said: "Then the wish of every father has just come true. My son is a better man than I am."  
  
Stunned at this response, Bobby was speechless. Tearing his eyes away from his fathers gaze, he looked back down to his mother. After watching Bobby for a moment, George too turned his attention to his wife.  
  
The two of them stayed like that, in silence, each thinking alternately of what was, and what might have been. 


	7. Age 30

Age 30  
  
Bobby got there early. The deepest recesses of his soul wanted to get in, do what he had to do and get out before anyone else was there. He knew he wouldn't. He'd stay and do his duty. Sitting in the last pew, at the end nearest the door, he hung his head, not really praying, but he did it all the same, out of respect for the priest he knew was watching. After a few moments, he brought his head up and opened his eyes, finding himself staring directly at a crucified Jesus hanging above the pulpit. He gazed into Jesus' eyes, painted ceramic pupils full of physical pain and mortal grief, appropriate for today, but Bobby wondered what a bride and groom would feel about a tormented Jesus presiding over their nuptials.  
  
With a silent sigh of resignation, Bobby stood and walked up the narrow aisle toward the Jesus and his fathers casket that was lain out underneath. He approached the coffin slowly, almost cautiously, as if he didn't see dead bodies every day. Georges' friends had been at the viewing the day before, leaving items of sentiment in the casket. Bobby shook his head, taking stock of the objects that were to accompany his father in the afterlife. Three or four racing forms rested on his chest, a full bottle of whiskey was propped up against the side of the coffin near the left hip. With amazement, Bobby realized he could smell the same perfume that had surrounded his father for years, then he saw the source. A bright red scarf was tucked under his fathers' right hand. He felt a brief flash of indignation, and considered taking the scarf out of the coffin, tossing it into the nearest trashcan. The feeling passed, and Bobby left the scarf where it was, knowing the woman who had brought it must have felt something genuine for his father.  
  
Shuffling feet and whispered voices announced the arrival of the first mourners. Bobby stared at his fathers' face for another moment, a single tear slipping out of his eye. Those watching, who knew the family and their story, and were trying to assess Bobby's movements, would assume it was a tear of sorrow. They wouldn't be completely wrong; it was a tear of sorrow of sorts, for sorrow not felt. 


End file.
